Night Terrors
by AndAgain
Summary: The fear in the dream about the archdemon translates confusingly into reality for Alistair when he realizes something surprising about his fearless leader, the elven mage Alonathel. Rated T for some violence and extremely mild suggestive themes.


**A/N: So, here's my very first attempt ever at fanfiction. Woo! It's quite short, done in an evening. There's not enough Zevran love on the internet! I'm here to fill the void :D**

**-AA**

They had just returned from bringing the ashes to Arl Eamon. They were camped outside of Redcliffe village, in a shallow valley between two overgrown, weedy hills. No one would ever accuse Ferelden countryside of being particularly beautiful. Alonathel was talking seriously with Sten, a little ways from the fire, and the sight was nothing short of comical. Thel, short and slim, with graceful elven features turned oddly alien in flickering light. Her long-fingered hands fluttered every which way as she spoke, adding emphasis to whatever she was saying. Pale, with light hair done up in two intricately spiraling braids.

Sten was her polar opposite. Taller even than a human male, he seemed to loom over her dangerously. Dark, with arms folded and lips pursed as he listened. His silver-white hair glowed strangely in the firelight, and his deep-set eyes were covered by two oddly luminescant eyebrows, knitted in such a way as to make him appear almost wild.

Alistair snickered quietly at the two, at the utter contrast. One short, one tall, one fair, one dark, one radiating life and passion and the other stoic ferocity.

'It's almost... poetic.' He thought, sitting down on a log and beginning to pull off his boots. 'Says a lot about our company. Maybe that crazy bard should add something of the sort to that ridiculous ballad she's been writing about our... exploits.' He shook his head, smiling. Leliana had recited her current draft a few nights before. The woman could sing, yes, but her prose was... interesting. There had been some rather unconventional rhymes bandied about. Zevran had remarked, "Your poetry, my dear, is nearly as original as mine.", quite cryptically, in Alistair's oppinion. In that regard, a lot of what the assassin said was strange. And, when Alistair had turned to ask Alonathel her oppinion on the matter, he had been surprised to discover her blushing furiously and biting back a smile as Zevran caught her eye.

The whole thing was suspicious.

Alistair managed finally to seperate his boots from his feet and leaned back comfortably, warming his toes by the fire. It was late at night, and most of the camp was asleep. Leliana had gone to bed nearly as soon as they'd returned. Wynne and Morrigan had been asleep when they arrived, and Shale had retreated quietly from the group shortly after Leliana. Now, only Alistair himself, Alonathel, Zevran and Sten were awake.

Thel finished her conversation with the Qunari and sat down by Alistair on the log, staring thoughtfully into the flames. Sten went into his tent.

"We're taking a detour tomorrow, so we probably won't reach Orzamar for another day or two." She spoke suddenly, without looking up.

"A detour? A detour where, my dear?" Zevran asked, glancing at her for a second before re-focussing on meticulously oiling his leather gloves.

"To Lake Calenhad. It shouldn't take too long, but you never know."

"Lake Calenhad? That's quite the detour. More of a whole seperate trip, really." Alistair chimed in.

"It's a detour if it's only slightly off the path, Alistair." Thel said, rolling her eyes slightly and standing up to stretch.

"No, no, it's not one... exactly. Sort of a trip-detour or a... a Triptour. A Detrip?" He grinned at her boyishly.

She laughed and then stretched, arching her back and standing on her toes, her hands clasped and arms reaching behind her head, before sticking her tongue out at him. "I'm going to bed, you twit. Night, Zevran." She leaned her stave on one of her tent-poles, then went inside.

"Night!" Alistair called after her, still smiling. Zevran waved one hand, intent on his work. After another few moments of musing by the fire, the ex-templar went to sleep, leaving the asassin to take the first watch.

Much later, it was he that sounded the alarm.

Various companions tumbled out of their tents, grabbing swords or daggers or whatever else was nearby. Alistair groggily ended up with an axe somehow, but it worked fine against the darkspawn. 'In camp' he kept thinking, 'In camp. How can they be in our camp?' Morrigan was throwing out lighting bolts willy-nilly, and Alonathel had accidentally caught one of Leliana's legs in a cone-of-cold, so the redheaded archer was having to fight close-range, sometimes using the end of her bow to fend off an enemy.

Eventually they prevailed, and Shale disposed of the bodies while everyone else caught their breath and slowly returned to bed. Alistair was one of the last, and when he managed to fall back to sleep it was restless and fitful. He dreamed of the horde, of fire and torches and marching. Of terrible hunger and anger and fear. Of a great, black dragon that was tainted and evil and old beyond belief. It seemed to watch him, and he grew increasingly afraid, and then it roared a terrible, bellowing roar that turned into a tearing shriek that seemed to pierce his very soul.

Alistair awoke, covered in sweat and disoriented, but the scream kept going. It trailed off as he got his bearings, but began again only a minute or so later. 'Alonathel!' He realised, 'She must have dreamed it, too!'. He pulled on a shirt and burst from his tent, only to witness a pair of dark leather boots already entering hers.

The screaming subsided suddenly, replaced by a quiet sobbing. Alistair hovered near what was left of the fire, worried and confused. After a few moments, there was a rustling at the entrance to Alonathel's tent, and the ex-Templar backed out of sight. Better to see who it was, first. If Leliana emerged, then he was certain she'd shoo him away and he wouldn't find out if Thel had dreamed the same dream. Wouldn't be able to confirm the bit about the dragon. The archdemon. A surge of fear cascaded through his body suddenly, and he clenched his teeth. He had to talk to her. Had to know if he was right.

But it was not Leliana that appeared. It was Alonathel herself, crying quietly, clad in a long flannel nightdress and no shoes, her hair uncharacteristically untidy and undone. She was followed, however, by a sight that was even more surprising than this strange, vulnerable version of his usually cheerful leader. Behind her came the asassin.

Zevran had his arms about her shoulders, his head bowed close to hers as he whispered things Alistair couldn't hear, his lips moving rapidly near her pointed ear. One of his fingers was tracing circles on her colarbone, and one hand moved up to wipe the tears from her face. She was leaning against him in a way that was frighteningly familiar, and Alistair felt frozen in place, watching. She stopped crying and sighed gently as Zevran moved his arms down around her waist. He bent again and whispered something to her, and she laughed in a way that was so free and love-filled that it made Alistair's heart ache. She turned in the Antivan's arms and kissed him full on the mouth, eyes closed. He brought his hands up to her shoulder blades, holding her protectively against him.

She broke the kiss and leaned her forehead against Zevran's, sighing again, but out of contentment in stead of tears. The asassin turned his head as if to whisper to her again, but in stead bit her nose gently, and she giggled. Alistair felt sick. He turned away and silently returned to his tent, trying to ignore the sounds of quiet conversation coming from outside.

In the morning, she came to speak with him. Thel's hair was up in braids again, her face showed no sign of crying and her demeanor was as optimistic and in-charge as ever.

"Alistair!" She said in a serious tone, "I think I dreampt of the archdemon last night. I think this is really a blight."

"Really?" He said, "I wasn't sure if you'd sensed it." His voice carried the same solemnity as hers, but it had undertones of a cynical humor that she didn't understand.

'I wonder,' she mused quietly, a little later in the day, 'what on Earth he was thinking about.'


End file.
